The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Had she been able to satisfy that desire, a few nights of passion might have quenched it. Knowing she could not have what she wanted increased its value tenfold. He tantalized her. Her nights were spent in sweet, tormenting fantasies of his love; her daily menial tasks were made bearable by dreams of introducing him to the pleasures taught in a royal seraglio.

  And the Amir was going to make war on him.

  Khardan might well be killed! Might? Hah! Meryem knew enough of the man to realize that for him there would be no surrender. Were the foe to outnumber him a thousand to one, he would die fighting. What could she do?

  She had only one idea. She would try to persuade him to flee with her to Kich. The Amir could use a man such as Khardan in his armies. He would be near her, in the palace, and once the nomad had tasted the pleasures of city life, Meryem was postive he would not want to return to this one.

  Knowing the loyalty Khardan felt for his people, Meryem was somewhat dubious about the success of her plan, but there was no harm in trying. At least it would give her an excuse to talk to him, to be alone together in the privacy of his tent.

  Consequently, on the afternoon when Zohra and Mathew were absorbed in their contemplation of terrifying visions and Usti was absorbed in the contemplation of a bottle of fine wine, Meryem rose from her supposed nap and crept out into the camp that slumbered beneath the sweltering sun.

  Silently, unobserved by anyone, Meryem slipped into Khardan’s tent. He was asleep, his strong body stretched out full length upon the cushions. For long moments she stood watching him, delighting to torment herself with the ache of her longing. One arm was thrown across his eyes to protect them from a beam of sunlight that had slanted over the bed and was now gone with the approach of evening. His breathing was even and deep. The front of his tunic was open, revealing the strong, muscular chest. Meryem envisioned sliding her hand inside, caressing the smooth skin. She envisioned her lips touching the hollow of his throat and was forced to shut her eyes and regain control of herself before she dared approach him.

  Feeling her glowing cheeks cool, she knelt down on shaking knees by his bed and laid a gentle hand upon his arm.

  “Khardan!” she whispered.

  Startled, he blinked and half sat up, his hand reaching instinctively for his sword.

  “What? Who—”

  Meryem shrank back in terror. “It is only me, Khardan!”

  His expression softened at the sight of her, then he frowned. “You should not be here!” His voice grated harshly, but she knew—with a thrill—that it was not the harshness of anger but of passion.

  “Don’t send me away!” she pleaded, pressing the palms of her hands together. “Oh, Khardan, I am so frightened.”

  She was pale and trembled from head to toe, but it wasn’t from fear.

  “What is it?” Khardan said, instantly concerned. “Who in this camp has given you reason to be afraid?”

  “No one,” Meryem faltered. “Well”—she amended, lowering her eyes and looking at him through the long lashes—”there is someone who scares me.”

  “Who?” Khardan demanded in a deep voice. “Tell me the name!”

  “No, please. . .” Meryem begged, affecting to try to draw away from him. Though this had not been her intent in coming here, the opportunity to strike out at her enemy was too good to pass up.

  Khardan continued to argue, and as he was much too strong for her, she yielded to his pressing demands.

  “Zohra!” she murmured reluctantly.

  “I thought as much,” Khardan said grimly. “What has she done? By Akhran, she will pay!”

  “Nothing! Truly. It is just that sometimes, the way she looks at me. Those black eyes. And then she is such a powerful sorceress. . .”

  Khardan regarded Meryem fondly. “Such a loving little bird as you, my dear, would not speak ill of anyone, even the cat. Do not be afraid. I will have a word with her.”

  “Ah, but Khardan!” She wrung her pretty hands. “This is not why I came! It is not for myself that I am frightened.”

  “For whom then?”

  “For you!” she breathed. Hiding her face in her hands, she began to weep, being careful as she did so to cry only enough tears to give a shimmer to her eyes, not to make her nose red and swollen.

  “My treasure!”

  Putting his arms around her, Khardan held her close, stroking the blond hair that had slipped out from beneath her veil. She could feel his body tense, straining against the bonds he had bound around himself. Her own passion rose. She let slip the veil from her face, revealing her full, red lips.

  “What have you to fear for me?” he asked, his voice husky, holding her away from him slightly to look into her eyes.

  “I have heard. . . about this terrible Sheykh Zeid!” she said in a tear-choked voice. “I know that there may be a battle! You might die!”

  “Nonsense.” Khardan laughed. “A battle? Zeid is coming in answer to our prayers, gazelle-eyes. He will ride with us to raid Kich. Who knows,” he added teasingly, brushing back a handful of golden curls, “by next week I might be the Amir.”

  Meryem blinked. “What?”

  “Amir!” he continued, just for something to say. His towering fortress of strength was rapidly crumbling. “I will be the Amir and you will show me the wonders of the palace. Particularly the secret hole in the wall that looks into the bathing room and the hidden chamber where the blind musicians play.”

  Meryem wasn’t listening. Was it possible? Why had she never considered this before? But could it be worked? There was still this terrible battle. . . . She had to think. To plan. Meanwhile, here was Khardan, his lips brushing against her cheek, burning her skin. . .

  “I must go!” she gasped, tearing herself from his embrace. “Forgive the foolish fears of a weak and silly woman.” She backed out of the tent, her heart pounding so that she couldn’t hear her own words. “Only know that she loves you!”

  Though his arms and hands released her and he let her go without trying to stop her, his eyes held her still, and it was all she could do to flee their warm embrace. Literally running, she escaped back to the cool solitude of her tent.

  Yes, she would sleep in the Amir’s bed.

  But it would be Khardan, not Qannadi, who lay beside her!

  Chapter 22

  Sheykh Zeid was now within two days ride of the camp around the Tel. Everyone waited eagerly to see what tomorrow morning would bring, for if Zeid were coming as a friend, he would send vaunt-couriers ahead of him by one day to announce his coming. If he were a foe, he would send no one. Since the spahis lived for fighting, they were as prepared for one eventuality as the other. Most—like Khardan—considered it unlikely that Zeid would opt for war. After all, what possible reason could he have for attacking them?

  Pukah could have given one. Pukah could have given them several. The djinn was the only person in camp not looking forward to tomorrow morning. He knew that no vaunt-courier would appear bearing guest-gifts and salutations from his master. He knew that instead there would be masses of fierce meharistes galloping down on them. Zeid’s men were true children of battle—the highest compliment one nomad can pay another. Strong and courageous to the point of folly, the Aran fought as well on foot as on the backs of their meharis, each man trained to run alongside his camel, using one hand to pull himself up onto the animal’s back by the saddle while slashing out with his sword in the other. Pukah chafed to be gone. He had to be gone by morning and intended to leave this night—Sond or no Sond.

  Majiid had been most reluctant to part with his djinn, and the fact that Sond was running off on another wild errand for Akhran didn’t help matters. The Sheykh was beginning to have his doubts concerning his wisdom of the Wandering God these days. The Rose of The Prophet looked to be on verge of death. He’d lost horses to the Hrana. (Majiid’s worst nightmares consisted of seeing his precious animals plodding along ignominiously behind a flock of bleating sheep.) Then there’d been the Amir’s refusal to
buy the horses, the Calif ‘s near arrest, and finally the arrival of a madman in their midst.

  “What more could Akhran do to me?” Majiid demanded of his djinn. “Beyond setting fire to my beard, of course. Now he wants to take you away from me!”

  “It is a most urgent matter,” Sond pleaded, driven by his love for Nedjma to pursue the argument in the glare of Majiid’s anger. “You, my master, are seeing things by night instead of by day. You may have lost horses, but you have gained mutton. You and Jaafar have managed to intimidate that old bandit Zeid, who is eager to be your friend. Khardan escaped the Amir’s wrath and tweaked the man’s nose into the bargain by carrying away the Sultan’s daughter, and now you will have vengeance upon the city and become wealthy in the process!

  “I will be gone only a few days at the most, sidi,” Sond said in conclusion. “You will never miss me. Usti, the djinn of your daughter-in-law, has agreed to supply your needs until I return.” (This Usti had done, but only after great quantities of qumiz, and then he had been unable to recall his agreement in the morning. This didn’t matter to Sond, however, who truly expected to be back before Majiid could think of wanting him.) “And if I may remind my Sheykh,” Sond continued smoothly, “now is hardly the time to offend Hazrat Akhran.”

  That much Majiid had to admit, albeit reluctantly. Such a daring undertaking as a raid on a walled city would require all the blessings the Wandering God had to bestow and then some. “Very well,” he said finally, giving grudging assent. “You may go. But I command you by the power of the lamp to be back before we launch our attack on Kich.”

  “To hear is to obey, sidi,” the overjoyed Sond cried, throwing his strong arms around his master and kissing him soundly on both cheeks—a proceeding that highly scandalized Majiid, who felled the djinn with one blow of his powerful fist. The swelling of Sond’s jaw was nothing compared to the swelling of his heart with love, however. He hastened into his lamp to prepare for his journey.

  Pukah, meanwhile, restlessly prowled the camp, trembling in dread whenever anyone rode up, fearful news would come that Zeid was attacking sooner than the djinn anticipated. It was evening, the time when the barren sands came alive with sparkling purples and golds. Oblivious to the beauty, Pukah sat some distance from camp in the shadow of the Tel, watching with increasing gloom the people coming out of their tents to take advantage of the cool night breeze.

  “I will give Sond one hour,” Pukah stated, his eye on the rim of the sun that was slowly disappearing into the far distant hills. “When it is dark, we are leaving.”

  He was speaking to himself, as usual, and so was considerably surprised and more than a little alarmed to find this pronouncement met with a small, soft sigh.

  “Who’s there?” he cried, leaping to his feet. “Who spoke?” He drew his sword.

  “Oh, please! Put your weapon away!” said a sweet voice, the sweetest voice Pukah had ever heard in all his centuries. Dropping the sword, he fell to his knees.

  “It is you, my enchanter!” he cried, spreading his arms and looking around wildly. “Please, show yourself. I will not harm you, I swear it! I would sooner let myself be pierced by red-hot needles run into the soles of my feet—”

  “Don’t say such dreadful things, I beg of you!” the voice pleaded.

  “No, no! I won’t. I’m sorry. Please, only let me see you that I may know you are real and not a dream!”

  A cloud of golden rain began to shimmer before the djinn’s dazzled vision. Out of the rain stepped the form of a woman. She was dressed in voluminous white robes with long white sleeves. Wings surpassing the whiteness and delicacy of a swan’s sprang from her shoulders, their feathery tips brushing the ground. Silver hair curled about a face so ethereal in its wistful loveliness that Pukah didn’t feel a thing when his heart leaped from his chest and fell with a thud at the woman’s bare, white feet.

  “Please, tell me your name, that I may whisper it to myself every second from now throughout eternity!”

  “My. . . my name is Asrial,” said the immortal vision of loveliness.

  “Asrial! Asrial!” Pukah repeated in rapture. “When I die, that name will be the last word upon my lips.”

  “You can’t die; you’re immortal,” Asrial pointed out unromantically. Her voice shook as she spoke, however, and a tear sparkled like a star upon her cheek.

  “You are in trouble, in danger!” Pukah guessed instantly. He threw himself upon his belly in the sand, arms outstretched. “I beg you! Let me help you! Let me sacrifice my unworthy life for just the reward of removing that tear from your cheek. I will do anything, anything’“

  “Take me with you,” said Asrial.

  “Anything but that,” Pukah said heavily.

  Sitting up, leaning back on his heels, he regarded the angel with a mournful expression. “Ask me for something simple. Perhaps you’d like the ocean to cool your feet. I could it put it over there, to your left. And to the right, a mountain, to complete the view. The moon, to hold in your hand, and the stars to adorn your hair. . .”

  “Can you truly do such things?” Asrial’s eyes widened.

  “Well, no,” Pukah admitted, realizing that he might suddenly be called upon to supply one or more of the above. “But I am very young. Someday, when I am older, I expect to be able to perform these and other such miracles like that!” He snapped his fingers. “You see,” he added confidentially, “I am the favorite of my God.”

  “Ah!” The angel’s pale, wan face brightened until it seemed to Pukah he was blinded by her radiance. “Then surely you have nothing to fear and my coming with you will be only a minor inconvenience. I will keep out of your way,” she promised. “I won’t be any trouble, and I might be of some small help. I am not a favorite of my God as are you,” she added shyly, “but Promenthas is very powerful and a loving father to his children.”

  “Are you his daughter?” Pukah was beginning to fear that he’d chosen the wrong immortal to try to impress.

  “No, not literally,” Asrial said, blushing. “I meant only that all those who worship Promenthas are viewed by him as his children.”

  “So, you worship Promenthas,” Pukah said, stalling for time, wondering how he could get out of this.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Do you mind if I sit down? It’s been a . . . a trying day. . .”

  “Oh, please!” Pukah sprang to his feet. “What would you prefer? A cloud? A cushion of swan’s down? A blanket of lamb’s wool?” He produced all three, this being a relatively simple trick.

  “Thank you,” she said, selecting the blanket. With her own hands—such lovely hands, Pukah saw with a sigh—she spread it upon the desert floor and sank down onto her knees.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “What are you looking at?”

  “Your wings. Forgive me, but I was just wondering how you manage to sit like that without crushing them. “

  “They fold back, out of my way. Like this.” She turned slightly to give him a view of the graceful sweep of her feathers trailing on the ground behind her.

  “Ah!” said Pukah, overwhelmed by the beauty of the sight. He caught hold of his hand, just as it was straying out to touch one of the feathers. Clasping it firmly, he held it behind his back, out of temptation.

  “It is unusual to see a female immortal on this plane.” A sudden jealous thought struck Pukah. “The madman is your master. In what capacity do you serve him?” he demanded savagely.

  “The madman—I mean Mathew—is not my master. We do not serve humans as do you,” she added, regarding Pukah with lofty reproof. “I serve only Promenthas, my God.”

  “You do?” Pukah cried, ecstatic. “Then why are you with the madman?”

  “Mathew is not mad!” Asrial returned angrily. “I am his guardian.”

  “You?” Pukah seemed to find this amusing. “From what do you protect him? Vicious attacks by butterflies? A sparrow coming too near?”

  “I saved his life when all the rest of his companions were slaughtered b
y the foul followers of Quar!” Asrial cried, stung. “I kept him alive when he was in the fiendish clutches of the evil slave trader. I kept him alive when your master would have had his head on his sword!”

  “That is true,” Pukah said thoughtfully. “I saw that myself and I found it hard to believe. Khardan is not generally one to show mercy.” He regarded her with new respect. “I think, then, that your mad— Forgive me . . . your Mathew. . . is a human fortunate in his God’s choice of a guardian. I also think that your Mathew is still in much need of guarding, if you will forgive my mentioning such a distressing fact,”- he added gently.

  “Oh, Pukah!” Asrial’s eyes filled with tears. “I do not want to leave him! But I have no choice, it seems. If I do not go on this journey with you, I have been told that a terrible fate will most certainly befall him!”

  “Do you know where we are going?” Pukah hedged.

  “I was told you seek the Lost Immortals.”

  “Who told you?” Pukah demanded, startled and displeased.

  “Sond! That’s it! You know Sond! He knows you! Ah, I should have guessed as much! Breaking his heart over Nedjma, is he? Meanwhile dallying with another immortal—”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about!” Asrial said coldly, drawing her robes closely about her. “I never heard of this Sond. As for who told me, I can’t tell you. It is a secret, one on which— perhaps—my Mathew’s very life depends.”

  “I’m sorry. Don’t cry. I’m a jealous fool!” Pukah said remorsefully. “It’s only that I love you to distraction!”

  “Love?” She looked at him in perplexity. “What is this talk of love and jealousy and dalliance among our kind?”

  “Are there male angels among you?”

  “Yes, most assuredly.”

  “Don’t you fall in love?”

  “Certainly not. Our thoughts are on paradise and the good work that we strive to do among men. We are wholly occupied in our worship of Promenthas. It is he who has our love, and it is a pure love, unstained by the corruption of bodily lust that so afflicts humans. And is this not true with you?”